


Anastasia’s Got Nothing on Me

by brightloveee



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Princess Diaries AU, tw: reference to past child abuse, tw: some gay slurs in context
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightloveee/pseuds/brightloveee
Summary: ForRNM Alternate Era AU EventDay 5: Movie Fusions -- Princess Diaries AU!Unbeknownst to them, the pod squad are part of the royal family of a small European country. They were in a plane crash that stranded them in the desert when they were children and left them without a memory of their prior royal lives.10 years later, when they’re in high school, a DNA test reveals Michael is the Crown Prince of Genovia, a small European country, and Max & Isobel are his royal cousins! It’s a very strange situation for the kid who was raised in rough foster homes, who was previously mostly worried about sleeping in his truck, whether his sister would make homecoming queen, and his burgeoning crush on the punk kid Alex, but now has the weight of being king of a country someday on his shoulders!Features a makeover montage, a royal ball, some hoity-toity royal people, and Malex kissing in a rose garden (will his foot pop??)
Relationships: Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 31
Kudos: 101
Collections: Time After Time: A Roswell New Mexico Alternate Era AU Event





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have many people thank for this fic being born!   
> [Christi](https://christchex.tumblr.com/) for being the first person I ever told about it!   
> [Inigo](https://insidious-intent.tumblr.com/) for being the first person to absolutely lose their shit over it - and for being the kook who keeps me going through every day.   
> [Lire](https://lire-casander.tumblr.com/) for being an amazing friend who coached me gently, and who has her own Princess Diaries 2 AU in this event! Read here: [recipe for disaster (what’s in your heart)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647402/chapters/56757733) (Great minds think alike - I can only aspire to have as great a mind as Lire.)   
> [Alyssa](https://spaceskam.tumblr.com/) for being the mad genius who always listens to me complain.   
> [Aileen](https://acomebackstory.tumblr.com/) just because I love her and I'm glad she hangs around with me.   
> I seriously love you all soooooo much and couldn't have achieved any of this without you!
> 
> Any and all errors are my own.

It was the helicopters that woke Michael up that morning, and really he should’ve known the day would just get weirder from there.

He was actually more surprised that the grooves in the bed of his truck hadn’t woken him up already. 

He’d tossed and turned all night. Again. The coarse blanket he used as a cushion beneath his second-hand sleeping bag had gotten bunched during the night, so Michael’s right shoulder was uncomfortably pressed against the cold metal divots underneath him, while the folds of his blanket scrunched in the middle of his back

Helicopters were not a typical appearance in Roswell. Sure, there were some Air Force bases relatively nearby, but that usually caused the sharp burst of a fighter jet more than the low hum of helicopters. And, Michael supposed, occasionally there was the odd hiker who got stranded in the desert and had to be life-flighted out by helicopter, but usually, they just kept right on going to Albuquerque. Hell, they weren’t even in the flight path of many commercial airlines, so the skies of their little corner of New Mexico were usually pretty boring.

Michael knew all this of course because he was, as Isobel would say, a huge nerd. He just loved physics. So sue him.

He sat up in the dim pre-dawn light to fix the blankets and checked his battered flip phone. He’d need to be up in a few minutes anyway to try to get to the locker rooms and shower before anyone in zero-hour band practice saw him. Not that he really cared what a bunch of band nerds thought. But he knew the rumors of Isobel Evans having a homeless brother bothered her and he didn’t want to screw up her chances at Homecoming Queen.

The thrum of the helicopters had tapered off by mid-day when he met up with Max for lunch by the bleachers. Their senior year had only just started a few weeks ago, and Michael thought it was unfair that his brain was still melting in the summer heat while he had to study for all the AP courses he’d signed himself up for.

Max’s nose was buried deep in a thick paperback when Michael found him on the grass in the shade.

“Already getting started on the AP Lit book list, I see,” Michael tapped the spine of _Great Expectations_ as he took a seat next to him.

Max shot him a smile, “Liz Ortecho’s in my class.”

Michael gasped in mock surprise. “Oh, you mean she’ll finally be impressed by your weird hard-on for literature?”

Max glanced across the lawn, where Liz Ortecho was at one of the tables having lunch. She had her boyfriend and his stupid friends on one side, stuffing their faces with sandwiches and cheetos, and her own friends, Maria DeLuca and that punk kid Alex Manes on the other, who appeared to be grimacing at their antics.

Michael watched them for a moment before he dug a bag of chips and a granola bar out of his backpack. The chips had been crushed under his AP Calc textbook, but he could still eat them. He was just tearing open the bag when the loudspeakers crackled overhead.

“Attention students,” the Vice Principal’s voice rang over the schoolyard. Michael rolled his eyes and went back to struggling with his bag of chips.

“Calling Michael Guerin and Max Evans to the front office, please. _Michael Guerin_ and _Max Evans_ to the front office. Thank you.” The 

Michael froze. He and Max looked at each other.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know man, did you do something?”

“Maybe it’s an award or something,” Michael shrugged.

Max scoffed. “Man, what would we get awards for?”

“Maybe they’re giving you another goodie-two-shoes trophy? And I’m still holding down valedictorian, thank you very much.”

“Yeah yeah,” Max rolled his eyes as they both stood and grabbed their stuff.

What Michael definitely did not expect was a whole bunch of cops in the lobby.

“Seriously Michael, what did you do?” Max whispered as they got nearer.

“Dude, I didn’t do anything,” he was a little irked that Max immediately assumed he’d done something wrong. Sure, it seemed like these cops thought he’d done something too, with the way they all turned around and walked towards them quickly with stern faces.

“Michael Guerin and Max Evans?” One of them asked. Michael read the patch on his uniform: Officer Jones.

“Who’s askin’?” Michael responded.

“Don’t give me lip, kid. Which one are you, Max or Michael?”

“I’m Max,” Max rushed up before Michael could say anything that got him in trouble. He stuck his hand out to shake hands with the cop, who just looked at him. He awkwardly lowered his hand again. Michael could hardly contain his sniggering.

“Come with us, boys,” Officer Jones said. “Your sister Isobel is coming with us too.”

“What do you need us all for?” 

“Couldn’t tell ya. We’re just here to escort you.”

“We have a right to know if we’re being arrested!” Michael protested.

“ _Michael, what the fuck,_ ” Max hissed.

“Gentlemen,” the Vice Principal came out from the administrative office, with Isobel trailing behind looking very prim. “Is there a problem here?”

“No sir, just explaining the situation to these young men,” Officer Jones said.

“Ah yes, these officers have important business for you, we expect you to behave as ambassadors of this school.”

Michael literally could not keep his eyes from rolling out of his head and onto the floor.

“ _What did you do?_ ” Isobel hissed as they were marched out of the school, but before Michael state, _again_ , that he was innocent of whatever the fuck was going on, Isobel’s eyes widened comically.

There were more than just cop cars waiting for them: a huge, sleek stretch limo looking extremely out-of-place in the high school parking lot.

A man in a suit who had been idly leaning against the car hopped to when the cops steered him and Max and Isobel up to the limo.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “My lady. I’m Steve.” He quickly turned and opened the limo’s back door for them with a genial grin.

Isobel looked over at Michael and Max with delight, but Michael just rolled his eyes again. This was a trap.

“You sure this is for us?” He asked.

“Of course,” Steve said. “Please.” He gestured for them to get in.

“Go on kids,” Officer Jones prodded. Max and Isobel piled into the limo, and Michael grudgingly followed.

Michael hated the police. He’d ridden in the back of cop cars a couple of times before, first when one of his foster parents had gotten busted for cooking meth, another time after the exorcism thing when the teachers noticed the burns on his arms in P.E. All the police officers acted like they were saving him, but they always just shipped him off someplace that was just as bad as the one before. Then they’d turn around and act like _he_ was suspicious and like what the fuck.

He really worked himself up while the three of them rode in the limo. Isobel and Max spent the whole time looking around with wonder at the mini-fridge, the sliding screen between the driver and the back seat, the sun-roof that Max could even stick his head out of - though the police chirped their sirens when he did. Even that made them giggle with delighted shock.

Michael knew wherever they were headed had to be bad. He didn’t trust the system like they did. He’d been screwed over like _ten_ too many times.

Michael got even more confused when they didn’t take the turnoff to the police station.

“Where are we going?” he asked sharply as they took another road down one of the nicer streets in town. Max and Isobel appeared to ignore him, examining the snacks in one of the hidden cabinets they’d found.

He was downright agitated by the time they pulled up to some big fancy-looking building. It was gated, and there were cameras and security guards. It looked like a house, but like, the fanciest one Michael had ever seen. This was not right.

“We have a right to know why we’re being arrested,” Michael said immediately when Steve the chauffeur guy opened the door for them.

“You’re not under arrest,” Steve said, trying for a winning smile. Michael wasn’t convinced.

“What else do you call it when the police take you somewhere against your will?”

“ _Michael_!” Isobel snapped, crawling over him to get out of the limo. Max met his eye and just shrugged as he climbed out too. Michael knew Max was secretly stoked about this. He loved cops. 

Michael had no choice but to follow them out of the car and up the steps to the house.

The police officers didn’t follow them inside, a couple of beefy security guys with dark sunglasses directed them down a hallway then into a fancy room with a big dining table in the middle.

Max and Isobel continued to look around with child-like grins as if they’d never seen a _room_ or _windows_ or _flowers_ before. They kept remarking how nice the place was. Michael took the seat farthest from the door. There was probably going to be a social worker or something.

Sure enough, a moment later a woman in a skirt-suit with a clipboard came through the door, followed by a guy in dark sunglasses. _Oh, here we go,_ Michael thought to himself.

“Hello everyone, I’m Charlotte,” the lady said, taking a seat. “I trust you had a good journey here.”

“Why are you detaining us?” Michael asked abruptly, cutting through the bullshit.

“We’re not detaining you,” the lady tried to put on a kind, patient smile. It looked fake.

“Then can we go?”

The man cleared his throat. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Then you’re free to leave.” Unlike the woman, the man’s voice was stern and deep. He did not smile. Nor did he seem like he was going to give them any leeway.

“Fine,” Michael said, crossing his arms over his chest.

The woman, Charlotte, sat up, a smile still plastered across her face.

“We can start with you. State your name,” she said. 

“Michael Guerin.”

“Date of birth?”

“Yeah, my birth certificate says August 17th, 1990.”

“Your birth certificate?”

“I don’t know actually my date of birth. Me and Max and Isobel were found together in the desert on August 17th in 1997 and we looked like seven-year-olds so that’s what they put on the provisional birth certificates.”

“Huh, and you don’t remember your actual birthday?” the woman tapped her pen to her chin.

“I don’t remember anything before they found us. None of us do.”

“You really expect us to believe,” the man interjected, deep voice booming in the quiet room. “That all three of you woke up in the desert on August 17th, 1997 with no memory of who you were or how you got there?”

“I expect you to believe the truth,” Michael said obstinately.

“No need for attitude here, young man,” the man chided.

“Hey, _you_ kidnapped _me_. Shouldn’t _I_ be asking the questions?”

“We,” Charlotte interrupted, smile looking tight now. “We just need to collect some DNA samples then we can take you home.”

“DNA samples?” If they thought they could get away with this, they had another thing coming. Michael was just getting started.

“ _Michael,_ ” Isobel hissed.

“ _Fine_ ,” Michael deflated. That was Isobel’s _stop-it-right-now_ look and he really didn’t need what was on the other side of that. She kept the glare leveled on him while the woman ushered in some third person with rubber gloves on and little baggies where he put samples of their hair like some kind of weirdo.

After the doctor guy took samples of their hair, he also got samples of their blood, saliva, and fingernail clippings, which – _ew_. They didn’t ask them any more questions until the end when they wanted to look at their driver’s licenses and make them sign some papers verifying their identities.

“We will need a mailing address and a physical address for you, Mr. Guerin,” the lady said, handing back his form. “You left them both blank.”

“Oh, uhh. You can just put the school address. They’ll get it for me.”

“I’m afraid that won’t suffice.”

“Well it _is_ where I spend most of my waking hours, so if that’s not a physical address I don’t know what is.”

The man cleared his throat, warningly.

“I don’t…” he said tightly. “I don’t really have a good address right now.” The woman furrowed her brow at him.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

Isobel, seeming to sense this was veering wildly off-track, broke in, grabbing the paper.

“He can just put our address for now,” she said, filling it in quickly.

It wasn’t until they were on the limo ride back to the school that it occurred to Michael how deeply, truly weird the entire day had been.

The three of them piled back in the limo and just looked at each other. They’d rounded them up, asked basic questions, done some weird stuff with samples, then sent them all right on back. It was bizarre.

When they got back to the school it was well past the end of the day. The parking lot was deserted. 

As Michael climbed into his truck, he heard the thrum of helicopters in the distance again.

\--

Michael still couldn’t make any sense of it no matter how long he puzzled over it that night, buried underneath his blankets in the back of his truck looking up at the night sky. He’d given up completely on any fantasy of parents finding them years ago. The odds were high that their parents were complete deadbeats that didn’t leave any record behind, and with Michael’s luck, any mythical parents would be Max’s and Isobel’s and Michael would be some kind of unwanted stepchild.

He stared up at the stars for hours wondering whether there was some crime they’d get pinned for, or some kind of freaky test they were doing on orphans, or whether there was a cult trying to induct them.

But at least there weren’t any helicopters waking him up early the next morning before school.

In fact, he was almost late to class and didn’t have time for his usual zero-hour shower. He came into first period AP Chem to see Liz Ortecho, Teacher’s Pet, already holding court at the front of the room and seriously considered turning around and going right back out.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Guerin,” Mr. Taylor called. Well. Too late for that now. Michael shot him a devil-may-care-grin that may have looked sheepish. But charming, right? He grabbed a seat in the back row, pulling his textbook out of his backpack, accidentally dropping one of his pencils to the floor.

“Fuck,” he whispered, leaning over the bar of the chair desk so far he was pretty sure his kidneys would get crushed.

“Here,” a hand with dark painted fingernails and skull rings swam into his vision, quickly grabbing the pencil and holding it out for him. He raised his eyes to see Alex Manes sitting in the seat next to him.

He’d forgotten that Alex was in this class, but then again he was an emo kid that tended to hang near the back, so it wasn’t unusual not to have noticed.

“Here,” Alex said again, smile growing as he held the pencil out further.

Michael had never realized how warm and brown Alex’s eyes were. 

“Yeah,” Michael said slowly, taking the pencil. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Alex replied, then turned his eyes back to the front.

“Quiz results!” Mr. Taylor was shouting. The whole class groaned. Liz Ortecho, like some kind of Hermoine Granger nerd, sat up straighter. “Mr. Guerin, since you were late you can hand back last week’s quizzes.”

Michael exchanged an exasperated look with Alex as he stood. Why hadn’t he ever tried to be friends with him before? Alex seemed actually cool.

He took the stack of quizzes and began passing them around. He knew that Mr. Taylor always picked him or Liz because they always set the curve, so theoretically wouldn’t be paying that much attention to other people’s grades or whatever. Boy, how wrong he was. Michael knew for a fact that Liz mentally cataloged each and every one of them, and he didn’t mind getting to hand back shitty grades to dumb football players either.

 _Sucks_ he’d think in a nasty voice every time he handed over a low grade face-up and the jock turd would scramble to turn it over. 78% for Brock Johnson. Sucks. 75% for Tommy Garrett. Sucks.

One test had a big 63% across the top. _Super sucks._ He started to snigger until he saw the name. Alex Manes. Oh.

He looked up to see Alex already watching him. He held out the paper and Alex took it with a resigned smile and a small, “thanks.”

Michael looked away before he could see Alex’s reaction to the score. He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed. He wondered if Alex had seen his shitty sly grin and thought Michael was making fun of him. Fuck. 

Also, Michael had no business being this worked up over an interaction with Alex Manes. Before today, they’d said like three words to each other. Ever. Yet here he was, heart beating just a little extra in a weird way when he came back to his desk next to Alex. Here he was, watching Alex take notes out of the corner of his eye. Here he was, noticing that Alex’s notes were pretty bad and he clearly had no idea what was going on. Here he was, thinking that was kind of endearing.

The bell could not ring fast enough.

Max found him after first period to talk about the weird police incident of the day before.

“I have music, come on, I can’t,” Michael said when Max grabbed his arm to take him down the hall in the opposite direction of where needed to go.

“Isobel thinks she can get VP Murray to fess up what’s going on,” Max said. “She has front office TA during this period.”

“So she can ask him,” Michael said. 

Max raised his eyebrows. They both knew they wanted to be there too.

“Fine,” he caved. Out of all the classes for them to drag him out of, music was the one he actually _wanted_ to go to.

They made it to the office just before Isobel and the Vice-Principal.

“Ah, Mr. Evans, Mr. Guerin,” VP Murray said when he came in. “I take it you’re also interested in yesterday’s events?”

“Yeah, no duh,” Michael said.

“Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to say,” the VP said with coy sort of dork smile. “But there might be some _very_ exciting news.”

He promptly went into his office and shut the door.

That left the three of them standing in the hallway looking at each other.

“That settles it,” Michael said as soon as they made it out to his truck in his parking lot, where they could discuss privately. “It’s cloning. We’re clones, and they’re going to harvest our organs.” He lowered the tailgate on his truck and plopped down easily.

“ _What?_ ” Max spluttered as he took a seat next to him.

“That’s ridiculous,” Isobel folded her arms.

“Why else do you think they need blood samples? To see if we’re defective!”

“That’s not possible,” Isobel insisted.

“We have no memories because we were incubated in test tubes!”

“ _What??_ ” Max spluttered again.

“Stop,” Isobel said. Then, quietly, like it was a secret. “Maybe they found our parents.”

Max actually choked on air and started coughing violently.

“Why would they take us to some fancy building for that?” Michael asked as he slapped Max on the back. “Why not the social worker’s, or at school, or whatever?”

“I don’t know, maybe they’re like, important people.”

Michael leveled a withering look at her that would’ve been more effective if he hadn’t learned it _from_ her.

“There’s no way,” he said firmly. “It’s been ten years, nobody is coming. Max, stop.”

Max was looking at both of them with wide eyes.

“What would mom and dad say, though?” He said softly. He meant their adopted mom and dad. His and Isobel’s. Not Michael’s, who didn’t have any of those.

Michael couldn’t even listen to this. He grabbed his bag and headed back into the building. It was too late to get to music class on time, and Ms. Fournier was a stickler about reporting tardiness. So he decided he’d rather roam around the school aimlessly than listen to Max and Isobel talk about parents.

He was still seeing Max’s hopeful little smile on the back of his eyelids that afternoon when he swiped a guitar from the music room. After skipping class this morning, he wanted at least a couple of minutes.

He didn’t know why he needed Max _not_ to believe it was their biological parents so badly. If their parents ever showed up, Michael wouldn’t have anything to say to them. They could screw themselves, he thought bitterly. They’d certainly screwed Michael over.

Putting together some chords would make him feel better. He pulled his truck around behind the bleachers, popped the back, put the guitar in his lap, and let his mind go blank. He felt his feet dangle in the air, felt the sun on his back, felt his fingers make the movements without him needing to think about it. 

“What the hell, Guerin?” A voice burst through the calm. “You can’t just steal instruments from the music room. This is mine.”

Michael looked up. It was Alex Manes.

“I was gonna return it,” Michael said, letting Alex take the guitar out of his hands easily. “And it was out of tune, so, you’re welcome.”

Alex tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, looking at the crumpled blankets in the bed behind Michael. “You really do live in your truck.”

“All the rumors about you true?” Michael retorted, the niggling anger that had been bothering him all day returning full force.

Alex stiffened, lifted his chin in a challenge. Michael scoffed, waiting for Alex to say something demeaning. Everyone else did.

“You’re kinda lucky, you know,” Alex said instead, ducking his head. “Things at my house suck.”

With that, he tucked the guitar under his arm and started off. Michael just looked at his own hands, now empty.

“There’s this toolshed, out behind my house,” Alex said suddenly, from a few paces away. Michael turned to catch his words. “It’s warm, and I go there when things get bad. So…” He trailed off.

Michael watched Alex walk away with the guitar, and wondered if Alex meant it the way he hoped. Like Michael might have someplace to go, if he needed. Wondered why nothing made sense anymore.

\--

It was lucky, he thought, not three hours later, that he’d picked today to steal Alex Manes’ guitar. And luckier still that that resulted in an invitation to a backyard toolshed with a roof that only leaked a little and wasn’t the cab of an old pickup truck.

Michael sat on the little makeshift bed at the back of the Manes toolshed and watched lightning flash outside the window as the rain came down in sheets. Classic New Mexican weather. When it rained, it poured.

He’d never been more grateful for anything than when the door creaked open, and Alex stuck his head through.

“Here,” Alex said, as he came inside, shaking off droplets from his oversize rain poncho. He pulled a fleece blanket out from underneath, where he’d had it pressed against his middle. He held it out to Michael. It was still warm from Alex’s body. 

Alex was smiling, even though he was soaked. The dark eyeliner he wore was smudged across his wet face. “Oh! And this,” he pulled his bookbag around his side and retrieved a thermos. “I hope you like chicken and dumplings.”

Michael’s stomach felt like it was eating itself. He took the thermos, screwed off the lid, and felt the warm steam on his face. This was, honestly, the best thing anyone had ever given him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Yeah,” Alex said simply. “Okay, I gotta go back. Do you need anything else?”

Michael shook his head. He watched Alex slip back through the door into the rainy night, and despite the damp in the little shed, felt warm all the way down to his toes.

\--

The next day it seemed as though it was now Isobel who wasn’t talking to _him_.

He found her on the way into French class and tugged on her elbow.

“Iz,” he said. 

She turned to him with her most ice-cold glare.

“ _What_?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to storm off.”

“Yeah,” she pursed her lips. “But it could be them. How else do you think they’d find us?”

It was right on the tip of his tongue, _they won’t._ But he didn’t say it.

“Yeah, maybe,” he settled on. Isobel and Max were the only family he had. He couldn’t go pissing them off.

The _maybe_ resounded within for the rest of the day.

 _Maybe._ Maybe they wouldn’t always be the only family that he had.

He knew that little twinge in his belly, and it didn’t mean anything good. He knew better than to get his hopes up. He’d watched everything that came into his life turn bad right before him. It was as if Michael was a variable in an equation, he’d always solved negative. Everything was fine until he was introduced, and the entire thing tanked.

He’d always assumed that if the three of them did have parents, they were either dead or they’d dumped them deliberately. Took one look at Michael and decided they’d had enough. There was nothing wrong with Max and Isobel, and clearly their adoptive parents agreed. It was just Michael, who didn’t have anywhere to go. Just Michael who turned every home sour. Just Michael who attracted burns and fists and nasty words. Just Michael who would go back to his truck at the end of a school day, and have nowhere to drive. No one to see. No dinner to eat. Just Michael.

He hated feeling sorry for himself. Hated getting in his truck and the empty feeling of fuck _where do I go now_?

Hated, _hated,_ the _maybe_ that still bounced around within him. _Maybe someone was looking for him._

He drove himself to the toolshed out behind the Manes house, and buried himself in his physics notebook. It didn’t silence the _maybe_ , but the numbers and the equations and little lines of scribbled notes did drown it out.

He was deep into it when the door to the shed rattled open.

“Guerin, relax, it’s just me,” Alex said when Michael lept to his feet.

“I – I was just hanging out,” Michael blurted.

“Yeah, yeah, no, it’s fine. It’s good that you’ve been staying here. It’s cold at night,” Alex said evenly. He looked down, and Michael saw he had a guitar case clutched in his hands. “Uh, hey, I brought you this, it’s my brother’s. I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d use it.”

Alex handed him the guitar. Michael took it, disbelieving.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” He said, bringing it over to the bed and sitting down.

“People don’t always have an agenda. They _can_ just be nice to each other for no reason sometimes.”

“Not in my experience,” Michael said cynically. He unzipped the case and looked up at Alex who raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Michael couldn’t help the excitement he felt coursing through his veins, feeling the weight of the guitar in his hands. 

“Well,” he said, running his hands down the neck of the guitar, feeling the strings under his fingertips. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel quiet. Playing music.”

“Quiet?” Alex asked, taking a seat next to him on the bed.

“Uh, well I have all this chaos, going on inside me all the time,” Michael explained. “And… all I want to do is get away from myself. But then I play, and my… my entropy changes. Everything goes quiet.”

He strummed a few strings, already feeling the world fall away.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, dropping the guitar away for a moment to look over at him. Alex had been more generous than he had any right to expect.

“You’re welcome,” Alex said softly. Their gazes met. Alex’s big brown eyes locked with his. Michael was struck by the intensity of Alex’s stare. Then Alex looked at his lips. He leaned forward into Michael’s space. The world slowed down. Michael watched him come towards him and wondered what it would be like to lean right in too. It sent a thrill right up his spine. Something whispered _Maybe_.

But – 

He drew in a sharp breath and looked away. “Um,” he pulled the guitar closer in his lap, turning his body into it, still feeling that electric shock up and down his spine. He tried to regain his breath. He’d never felt like that. With anyone. Ever. At the same time that the delighted shock of it zipped through him, there was something like dread in the pit of his stomach.

Michael knew he was a variable with a negative value. In any equation. He always turned the whole thing bad. He was just a kid who’d been dumped in the desert, who had nowhere to go. Alex was the kindest person he’d ever known, and he didn’t deserve to have Michael kiss him and probably curse him.

Michael strummed the guitar instead.

Alex didn’t say anything, didn’t get mad. Simply sat there and listened to Michael play quietly. After a few minutes, he got up, whispered “good night,” and went back through the door. 

Michael longed to get up, go after him, grab him, pull him close. And _maybe_ Alex would still want him.

_Maybe._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael is a princess? No way, shut up _shut UP_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [lire](https://lire-casander.tumblr.com/) on her birthday

Michael’s phone pinged too early the next morning, and he woke up with a start. The shed was still and silent, the predawn sky outside flat and grey. Michael laid back upon the makeshift bed, god it was so much comfier than the truck. He looked at the band posters Alex had plastered up on the walls.

A swell of energy surged up inside him. Alex. He remembered the look in Alex’s eyes the night before. He needed to say something to him. He didn’t know what yet, but… something.

He got up and pulled on his clothes, gathered up his bag. He’d find Alex later, and he’d make it right. There was something so _right_ about Alex. He didn’t know what he had been thinking last night. He could kick himself.

He walked through the morning in a daze, floating through the locker room as he showered, changed, brushed his teeth. He felt urgent and jittery and so so _excited._

He headed to first period AP Chem, his body feeling weightless. Alex would be there. Michael would take the seat next to him. His stomach fluttered.

The first morning bell rang as Michael walked down the hallway, but it didn’t finish before the loudspeakers crackled to life.

“Good morning students and faculty of Roswell High School,” it was the Vice-Principal. “Calling Michael Guerin, Max Evans, and Isobel Evans to the front office immediately.”

Michael stopped dead in his tracks. He could see all the kids heading into their classes and for literally the first time _ever_ he _really_ wanted to go to class too.

“Repeat,” VP Murray called over the intercom. “Michael Guerin, Max Evans, Isobel Evans to the front office please.”

What now? Didn’t these people have their fun the first time? Michael had important shit to do, not play their little game. He dragged his feet reluctantly as he turned around and made his way in the opposite direction.

There weren’t cops in the lobby this time, but he did see a couple of large figures in dark suits inside the admin office.

“Michael Guerin,” one of them said when he entered. It was the man in the dark sunglasses who’d asked him all those questions before. “We met the other day. My name is Agent Haynes. Please come with me right away, sir.”

Michael was too busy snickering about the _sir_ to really pay attention to much else as he whisked him out of the room and towards the parking lot. _Sir._ Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Agent Haynes brought him out to the front to a familiar sight. The stretch limo was back, with cop cars on either side. 

“Hey, Steve!” Michael shot the chauffeur finger guns as he opened up the car door for him. Steve chuckled.

He found Max already waiting inside as he hopped in the limo.

“Hey there bro,” he said, dropping his bag on the car floor. “Where’s Isobel?”

“Isobel will be here shortly,” a deep voice interrupted. Max and Michael looked over, startled, it was Agent Haynes climbing in the front passenger seat of the limo.

“I’ll be escorting you today,” Haynes explained.

“Whatever,” Michael shrugged, reaching for the button that would roll up the partition between the front seat and the back.

“What – that’s rude Michael,” Max spluttered. Michael just looked right at him and continued to hold the button. Haynes didn’t even seem to care, he’d turned back around and was holding his hand up to his earpiece listening intently to whatever creepy guys chat about over earpieces.

Sure enough, the door did open a moment later as Isobel ducked in the car. She looked at Michael sharply.

“Don’t,” he said preemptively. She opened her mouth. “ _Don’t._ ”

She deflated, settling back with her arms crossed on her chest. He knew she wanted to talk about it being their important parents or whatever again. Michael saw no reason to believe this wasn’t just some weird joke. Maybe it was a reality TV show looking for Orphans Gone Wild. Maybe one of them had won the lottery. But the odds of parents suddenly surfacing? Too slim.

He was so lost in thought about the potential for the three of them having accidentally been caught up in an Ocean’s Eleven-type scheme where they were being pinned for the robbery of a casino because of doctored footage, that he was hardly paying attention when they rolled up to the fancy building from before.

On the way up the stairs to the entrance, some other guys came up to greet them, an older couple and a familiar-looking man in a cop outfit and a big cowboy hat.

“Hello kids, I’m Mayor Ben,” the older guy said. Apparently he was the Mayor of Roswell, who knew.”This is my wife, Maryanne, and Sheriff Valenti.” Oh, it was _Valenti’s_ mom. Michael really hated douche Valenti junior, and Mrs. Valenti senior seemed just as bad, with a look like sour grapes.

Mayor Ben, Maryanne, and Sheriff Valenti each held their hands out to shake Michael’s with big smiles – _fake_ smiles – then reached out to shake hands with Isobel and Max.

“Welcome to our home,” Mayor Ben continued. “We sure are honored to have you here.” Why the fuck were they at the Mayor’s house? Michael wondered to himself.

He could see Max and Isobel meeting them with big, dazzled smiles and scoffed to himself. Starstruck dweebs.

Agent Haynes cleared his throat, “Excuse us, I need to take the children inside.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Mayor Ben winked theatrically at Haynes, who didn’t react. Michael glanced at Isobel, who raised her eyebrow at him. He shot her a _shut up_ look.

“Right this way,” Haynes directed. They followed him down the same hallway, leaving the Mayor behind on the front porch, into the big dining room from before.

Only this time, it wasn’t empty. There was a host of bodyguards, a waiter attending a tea service in the corner, and that same gal, Charlotte, with the clipboard standing behind and an elegant older lady seated at the head of the dining table. The elegant lady stood and turned as Haynes and the three of them entered.

“These must be the children?” The woman squinted at them. She had a European-sounding accent. Michael shuffled his feet and shrunk back behind Max and Isobel. They were the ones with manners.

“Yes, ma’am,” Haynes said, head slightly bowed.

“Well, let me have a look at you,” in a graceful movement, she motioned for the three of them to come forward. Isobel straightened her back and stepped forward.

“Hello, ma’am, I’m Isobel,” she said, all perky and bubbly, with a flip of her ponytail. It was a tone that charmed the country club lady set, but it didn’t appear to work this time.

“Hmm,” the lady offered a tight smile. She turned to Max and Michael.

“You’re a tall young gentleman, very handsome,” she said, looking over Max. “You must be the one called Michael.”

Max fidgeted. “No, uh - m-ma’am,” he stuttered. “I’m uh, Max.”

“I’m Michael,” Michael spoke up. He stepped up next to Max, his heart beating a little harder under the woman’s stern gaze.

She looked at him for a long moment, lips pursed. She took in Michael’s ratty t-shirt, baggy hoodie, ripped jeans, and his grubby shoes. Michael knew he looked completely out of place in this room, with fresh-cut flowers and waiters serving tea, in this big mansion house with trimmed hedges.

“So you are,” the woman said after a long pause. “Please, have a seat.” She gestured them all to the dining table.

Michael came around to the side of the table, pulled out a chair and dropped his backpack on it, then took a seat directly to the right of the head of the table. Max and Isobel sat across from him.

“May I fetch you a cup of tea, sir?” the waiter materialized next to him.

“D’you got coffee?” he asked.

“Certainly, would the gentleman prefer espresso, an Americano, or perhaps a cappuccino?”

Michael didn’t even know what a bunch of those things were. “Oh, uh, I don’t know. Just – just regular coffee is fine.”

“Of course,” the waiter bowed as he backed away and came to hover over Max and Isobel’s shoulders. “And for the two of you?”

“Earl Grey, please,” Isobel asked in her best prim voice.

“Umm,” Max paused. “Orange juice?”

Michael glanced over at the lady to see her lips had gone very thin as she watched the three of them closely. The waiter bustled around the corner pouring drinks.

“Now,” the woman after a pause, as the waiter delicately deposited a refined kettle and tiny teacup in front of her. “Tell me, have you three ever heard of Edward Christophe Philippe Gerard Renaldi?”

The three of them looked at each other, silent and bemused.

“No,” Michael volunteered. 

“Edward Christophe Philippe Gerard Renaldi was the Crown Prince of Genovia.”

“Mm. What about him?” Michael hummed as if he knew where that was. He’d heard of Genovia, he thought maybe it was somewhere bordering Switzerland or maybe Sweden or something? He looked around at the staff who were all watching expectantly.

“Well, Michael,” she said, turning towards him. “Édouard Christophe Philippe Gerard Renaldi was your father.”

She paused, looking at Michael intently.

Max, who had just lifted his own orange juice for a sip, spluttered and spat it across the table. Charlotte, clutching her clipboard, ran over to assist the waiter in sopping it up, batting Max’s hands away as he stuttered and choked on air. Isobel gritted her teeth and looked directly at Michael, that sharp gaze screaming _I told you so._

“Yeah, right. My father, Edward Christopher Whatever Whatever was the Prince of Genovia,” he repeated skeptically. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I _lie_ about something like this?”

Michael was glad for all the commotion Max, who had now knocked his glass of orange juice fully over onto the nice tablecloth, was causing as he flailed around because otherwise the tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“He can’t be my father – I don’t have – that would make me….”

“Yes,” the lady finished for him. “That would make you not Michael Guerin, but Édouard Christophe Michel Gabriel Renaldi, _Crown Prince_ of Genovia.”

“Me?” Michael scoffed. “A Crown Prince? _Shut. Up._ ”

“I beg your pardon, shut up?” the lady repeated indignantly.

Michael, who had started to laugh, pointed to Isobel. “Are you hearing this? I’m a prince!” He cracked up. “Prince of Genovia!” 

“Your majesty,” Charlotte ducked down next to the lady. “In America, ‘shut up’ may not mean ‘be quiet,’ it may mean wow, gee whiz, golly –”

“Thank you, I understand,” she waved Charlotte away. “I did not properly introduce myself before,” she turned her attention back to Michael, Max, and Isobel. “My name is Marie Germaine Alexandrine Renaldi. I am the reigning Queen of Genovia,” she turned a regal eye on each of them. “And I am your grandmother.”

\--

It wasn't until they were driving them back off at the school that any of it set in.

“We’ll be escorting you back to your homes this afternoon,” Charlotte, who it turned out was the Queen of Genovia’s Chief of Staff, had explained to them calmly in the dining room. “We will meet with your families, and explain the situation. A lot is about to change.”

Michael had looked at Max and Isobel, who were both stock-still and wide-eyed.

“Change?” Max asked.

“Certainly,” the Queen of Genovia, who it turns out was their _grandmother_ responded. “Michael is next in line to rule, followed by the both of you as his cousins.”

“Cousins?” Max’s eyes grew even bigger.

“Woah – _RULE_??” Michael slammed his hands on the table, shaking the fine china.

“Well, yes -–” their Grandmother Queen started.

“I can’t rule a country!” Michael shouted incredulously.

“It’s true,” Isobel butted in. “Michael is not qualified to rule a country. He can’t even wear his shoes on the right feet.”

“Okay that was _one time _, Isobel, and you know it,” he retorted.__

__“ _Cousins_?” Max was seriously bugging._ _

__“Yes,” Charlotte explained, calmly patting him on the shoulder. “We may have introduced this a little backward. Michael is the heir to the late Crown Prince Phillippe, you and Isobel are the children of his brother, the late Prince Louis. The law leaves the royal inheritance to Michael, though all three of you are, of course, valued members of the royal family.”_ _

__They had all stared at her for a long moment. It felt like some kind of fucked up reality show. Michael took in a deep breath, and it came out just as explosively angry as he expected._ _

__“ _Valued members of the royal family_?” he raged, slamming his hands on the table again as he stood up. “If we were so valued, where have you _been_ for the past ten years?”_ _

__“We had thought we lost you,” the Queen stood as well and met his eye, coolly weathering the storm of his rage. “With your parents.”_ _

__“What happened to our parents?” Isobel asked._ _

__“There was a terrible crash. Your families had been traveling on a private plane, it… it went down unexpectedly,” even for a woman who was obviously very reserved, the anguish was written clearly across her features. “It was never recovered and its whereabouts were unknown. We,” she paused, overcome. “We looked everywhere. We thought you were all gone. Please believe that we had no idea you were here.”_ _

__She turned to Michael, holding his gaze intently. “You have been dearly missed.”_ _

__There hadn’t been anything for the three of them to say. They’d looked at her, and each other._ _

__“We’ll take you back to your homes,” Charlotte had repeated, pulling out her clipboard. “We’ll discuss with your families. Er, your adoptive families. We have the address here for the Evans. Prince Michael, Your Royal Highness, as I hope you’ll remember sir, did not provide an address or family information.”_ _

___Prince Michael_ his ears rang. He stood there, shellshocked, just looking at Max and Isobel. _A lot is about to change_ Charlotte had said._ _

__“Your Highness?” Charlotte called to him._ _

__“Oh, uh, what?” He snapped out of his daze._ _

__“Your home address, your family?” Charlotte repeated slowly._ _

__Michael froze. “I –I don’t…” he shuffled his feet and cast his eyes down._ _

__“Speak up,” the Queen commanded. “Mincing your words is not becoming of a prince. Where will we find your family?”_ _

__“I don’t have one,” he blurted. “Max, uh, Max and Isobel are my only family.”_ _

__“We have a record of you in the foster care system, but it’s been difficult to track,” Charlotte furrowed her brow, flipping through the papers on her clipboard._ _

__“I don’t live there anymore,” Michael admitted. “I um… I don’t really have a place right now.”_ _

__“Where do you sleep, keep all of your things?” the Queen looked aghast._ _

__He couldn’t look at Max and Isobel, who were sitting stock still across from him, so he held the Queen’s gaze. It was one of those things he didn’t talk about with his siblings. Ever. Michael knew that they both knew he’d been in some rough situations, but he’d stopped telling them things a while back and barked at them when they asked._ _

__“I have a…” he trailed off. “I have a truck. I work for Sanders, at the auto shop sometimes. I stay there.”_ _

__For a long moment, no one in the room moved. If it weren’t for the grandfather clock ticking in the corner, Michael would even think that time had stopped altogether. The Queen looked at him, face austere, white hair up in an immaculate bun, lips getting thinner and thinner as she appraised Michael. He just sat there and looked back at her steadily, heart beating in his throat, searching for something to say. Should he apologize? Did they have the wrong guy? How the fuck did they even find him again? None of the words would form properly in his head. It finally seems like the Queen’s words had started to._ _

__“A… truck,” she repeated back to him slowly._ _

__Michael felt his heartbeat go up a notch even higher. Would she decide she didn’t want him anymore? That she made a mistake? Michael didn’t know what he’d do. Just the… having a grandmother thing. Now that he’d thought about it, he liked it. He didn’t want to go back._ _

__The room remained completely still while Michael felt some kind of acid reflux run rampant in his chest. He’d just found his family and now he’d lose them again because he wasn’t good enough._ _

__Then, before Michael could say anything more, the Queen burst from her chair and stood there looking at Michael with a steely glint in her eye. “That’s preposterous. The future King of Genovia without a home? With no family? An absolute -“_ _

__“He does have family,” Isobel interjected, but Michael shook his head at her frantically._ _

__“Where is this _truck_?” the Queen asked austerely, ignoring Isobel._ _

__“Back at the school?” Michael said._ _

__“Very well,” she motioned Charlotte to her side. Charlotte, still holding a napkin now orange from Max’s juice, rushed around the table with her Blackberry at the ready. “Michael, Agent Haynes will escort you to the school to fetch your _truck_ , and you will stay at the hotel tonight. Charlotte will book you a suite, meager as it may be. Isobel, Max -- Charlotte will take you back to your home to collect your adoptive parents.”_ _

__“What about --” Max cut himself off before he could finish, when the Queen turned an eye on him. “Um, school?”_ _

__They all turned to watch the Queen._ _

__“Very well. We will meet in the evening. Your academics will remain uninterrupted in the meantime. Charlotte, please arrange the dinner service to include our guests,” She looked at each of them, before sweeping out of the room._ _

__“And,” the Queen said commandingly, in her most severe tone. “No one outside this room may be informed about what you have learned here today. Am I understood?”_ _

__Michael shrugged, gesturing to Isobel and Max. “Duh,” he said. “Who would I even tell besides these guys?”_ _

__Michael was corralled, dumbstruck, by the Secret Service agents, back to the stretch limo. He was guided into the car, where he collapsed limply as Max and Isobel crawled in after him._ _

__“Well, congratulations,” Isobel said curtly. “Now you’re a Royal asshole.”_ _

__The three of them burst into laughter._ _

____

\--

That evening found Michael looking at himself in the full-length mirror of a fancier hotel room than Michael even knew existed in this town.

He’d walked through the day with fresh eyes. He had a family. He had a grandmother, and parents – even if they were gone in a fiery plane crash apparently – and a future. As king of a country, no less. It sounded like the type of thing in those fantasy novels he checked out of the school library. _Young squire finds out he’s the long-lost Prince of Genovia._

Michael scoffed as he threw himself down on the big fluffy bed. _King-size bed for the future king,_ he chuckled. God, _I’m such a fucking asshole._

Michael knew there was no way they were ever going to put him in charge of a whole country full of people. Maybe a remote island inhabited by seabirds – he’d be qualified for that throne. But real live human beings and economies dependent on his actual governance? Not a chance.

They’d take one look at his record and shut that down. Which, he guessed, they _had_ looked at his record. At all of their records. That’s why they’d called all of them back for this big meeting tonight back at the Mayor’s house.

Right on cue, a knock came at his door.

“Your Royal Highness, this is Agent Haynes. It’s 6 pm, we need to depart for dinner with Her Majesty.” 

Michael sighed as he got up and straightened his hoodie. This was probably the part where they changed their minds about him. He just hoped he got to keep the grandma out of all of this. Pretty cool to have a grandma. He wondered if he’d get a Christmas present now. By the looks of this lady, she’d probably give Faberge eggs.

The first face he saw when he came back into the mayor’s fancy dining room was Mrs. Evans. She barely even glanced over at him when he entered, too busy looking between Isobel, Max, and the Queen, wide-eyed and shocked.

“So you told them too?” he said as he took in Mr. Evans slumped in his chair looking practically catatonic.

“Indeed we have, Michael,” the Queen said sharply. “Please take a seat.”

He made his way to the nearest open chair as the Queen cleared her throat.

“You may be interested to hear, Michael, that we were just discussing the circumstances around your adoption, or lack thereof all those years ago, with the Evans family here,” she continued. Her steely eyes were fixed on Mrs. Evans.

“Oh,” Michael said. He didn’t have a lot of memory of that time. He did remember watching, screaming, kicking, crying, shouting, when they took Isobel and Max out of the group home without him. It had taken a couple of adults to restrain him and still, he’d even wiggled free long enough to run down the dirt path after them as the car drove away. Of course, he didn’t catch them. Mostly, he remembered how the dust the car kicked up got all mixed with the tears running down his cheeks.

“Yes,” the Queen continued. “Mrs. Evans here was just explaining how she separated a young child from his family.”

“He was – it was!” Mrs. Evans blurted. “I didn’t think I could help him.”

“So you believed separating him from his family would help him?” The Queen asked coldly.

“He was unruly, he was running around yelling, drawing on the walls! But these two, they were so well-behaved. So sweet.”

“So you selfishly chose the easier children, leaving their cousin – who you believed to be their brother – out in the cold.”

“He needed more help than I could give him!”

“I never got any help!” The words burst out Michael hoarsely. He’d always imagined what it would be like to confront the Evans, to tell them how hard it had been because of them. How lost and lonely. There had been times, when he was younger, when he’d pictured so vividly all the things he would say to them that it was almost real. But now that it was here, his chest felt too tight for anything to escape. It was like all those hundreds and thousands of words formed a dam that wouldn’t let anything past at all.

He looked at the two parents who didn’t want him, who were looking back at him like he was some kind of dangerous zoo animal. Everyone in the room was completely still, eyes wide, except for the Queen who had gestured to Charlotte to her side.

_You just left me,_ He wanted to say. _You couldn’t even imagine loving me. You didn’t even want to try._

The words burned at the back of his throat. He looked at Mrs. Evans, who cast her eyes down at the table in front of her. Michael sagged back in his chair. He was never going to say the things he wanted to. He looked to the Queen, who was watching him with something like concern in her eyes. This would be it, when she would realize that Michael was too weak and too lame to ever be royal.

“I thought you’d be better off with someone else,” Mrs. Evans said in the silence. Michael looked down at his hands. _Better off alone,_ was what she meant, and Michael knew that was true. His face burned. _Better off alone, because you don’t deserve anyone._

“Better off?” The Queen said sharply, coming to her feet. “Charlotte, perhaps you would illuminate the ways in which young Michael was _better off._ ”

“Oh –” Charlotte fumbled through the folder in her hands.

“Nevermind, I think I remember quite well enough,” the Queen continued, voice like thunder. “Removed from five foster homes, bouncing from one group home to another, due to abuse, neglect, starvation. As a child, beaten, bruised, bloodied, _burned_. Charlotte would be happy to share the photographs. Now homeless, as a minor under 18 years of age. _Alone in the world_ while you raise two healthy children with means to spare.” She cast a disparaging glance at Mrs. Evans’ bleach-blonde hair and white suede jacket. 

“I –” Mrs. Evans gaped. “We –” she looked at her husband who looked even more dumbstruck in the face of the Queen’s formidable austerity.

The room sat completely still. Michael didn’t dare move a muscle.

“There is,” the Queen said finally, after a long moment. “Nothing to be done now, about the boy’s childhood. And no correction could possibly be enough to right the wrong done.”

Mrs. Evans, admitting defeat, hung her head. Mr. Evans looked around bashfully as if he wasn’t meant to be there.

“Dinner will be served now,” the Queen continued. “And then we’ll discuss what is to be done.”

The dinner that followed was definitely the best meal that Michael had ever had in his life. The servers had clearly overheard something of Michael’s childhood plight, because they served him immediately following the Queen with multiple plates overflowing with food, far beyond everyone else’s. Heaping portions of salads, cheeses, breads, something they called “fwa graw” Michael didn’t know but it tasted pretty good. He noticed that the bowl they served his soup in was bigger than the rest and chuckled while he inhaled the creamy thing – they called it a “bisk” whatever that meant. They brought him amazing roasted meat and potatoes and to finish off they brought him a tiny little coffee and a bowl of ice cream and an entire creme brulee to himself.

Michael had never seen such food in one place at one time. Ever.

He didn’t miss the way the bread basket was out of Mrs. Evans’ reach, or how they didn’t even get a creme brulee to share and Mr. Evans stared longingly at Max’s. Michael didn’t offer to share.

The wait staff all appeared to be speaking French or something to each other, so Michael figured they weren’t from here. They didn’t seem like it. No one from Roswell would ever be this polite in their lives.

When the meal was over, Michael collapsed over the arm of his chair, boneless. He’d never been this full. 

“Now,” the Queen said as the table was cleared of the last dishes. “We’ll discuss how we proceed.”

The entire Evans family sat up straighter. Michael, if anything, felt heavier. Good thing he’d enjoyed this before they kicked him out for good. He wouldn’t need to eat again for a whole month.

“Obviously, we’ll need to keep this a very private matter for the time being. It is vital that we contain the information to the individuals in this room until such time as young Michael and his cousins are prepared to assume their roles as public figures. That will mean many things. We will do the work of containing the foster families and group homes that previously hosted Michael. Charlotte is in the process of securing a rigorous Non-Disclosure Agreement for all of those parties, as well as the American authorities in ensuring the privacy of the records. Once the children have been --”

“You can’t possibly think of letting these children become royal!” Mrs. Evans burst in.

The Queen looked at her unfazed, if irked. “They already _are_ royal. It is their birthright.”

“They’re not ready to rule anything!”

“Of course not. We wouldn’t even think of his ascension before Prince Michael has reached the age of majority, and even then it will take many years of preparation and education before any of them will be suited for their public roles.”

“Education?” Max asked, with a slight scowl.

“Public roles?” Isobel asked, with a slight grin.

“Why yes, Max. Education extending well beyond university, I can assure you. We will, of course, need to assess your university options.”

Max gaped at her like a fish.

“We were planning to stay close to home,” Isobel supplied. “But that was before, of course.”

“We will discuss all of these things in due time,” the Queen said. “In the meantime, we will keep a low profile here while you continue your studies, Charlotte will undertake to track down all the loose ends from poor young Michael’s unfortunate childhood,” she shot a glare at Mrs. Evans, “and you three children will join me for several nights a week to begin your training.”

Before Michael could ask what that meant, Agent Haynes appeared back in the doorway, motioning for Michael to follow. “We’ll escort you back to your temporary residence, Prince Michael.”

The Queen gave a curt nod for him to be excused.

For the millionth time in the past twelve hours, Michael found himself awestruck at the incredible turn everything had taken. He might’ve contemplated it all more thoroughly if he hadn’t collapsed on the big, beautiful mattress, in his big, beautiful new digs exactly two seconds after getting back to the hotel. Instead, he was out like a light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Michael gets his princess makeover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Inigo](https://insidious-intent.tumblr.com/) on her birthday

Michael didn’t know what he expected to change now that he was a prince in line to inherit the throne of a country not entirely populated by seabirds, but maybe he expected _something_ to change.

Nothing did.

Well, other than the fancy hotel he lived in now, and the sleek black limo that drove him around, and the printed schedule of Royal Lessons that Charlotte gave him that included sessions after school three days a week and Saturdays. Oh boy. If Michael thought he’d get any sort of social life out of this, he was clearly wrong.

Not that he had any sort of social life anyway. Nothing at all changed with the kids at his school, who still paid him no mind. He wasn’t staying at the toolshed anymore, so he didn’t even see Alex very much.

Instead, he was getting picked up the next day after school in the big fancy limo to be shuttled back to some fancy estate that the Queen intended to make into a Genovian Consulate. It had clearly been a nice house at one time, but was now pretty shabby. 

“It’s not the Royal Genovian Palace,” The Queen said as the three of them shuffled into the dining rooms. “Certainly not Buckingham. But it will have to do.” The room, which was clearly started as a drab, nondescript room with maroon carpeting and beige wallpaper, had had some sort of attempt at a makeover. There was a big plant near the window, the cheap plastic tables had fancy lace tablecloths, and the curtains had been taken down and put in the corner. So, overall, it was actually _not_ an improvement, Michael had to say.

“Now,” the Queen said, when Michael stood next to Max and Isobel, looking around bemusedly. “Step forward. Charlotte, please take notes.”

Charlotte, who had been murmuring quietly, “ _Good, fine furniture_ for the room, David, not _find furniture at Goodwill_ ,” nodded and raised her Blackberry expectantly at the Queen’s instruction, tapping the earpiece under her glossy blonde bob.

“Max, then. You first,” the Queen gestured him forward. Max took a big step towards her then stood stiffly in the middle of the room, hands in clenched fists by his sides.

“Tall,” was all she said for a long moment. Max looked back at Michael and Isobel tensely, rotating on the spot to follow the Queen as she circled him until she held up a hand. He stilled.

“ _Hat,_ ” was all the Queen said next. Max’s eyes bulged. Hurriedly, he snatched the backward baseball cap off his head. Michael couldn’t help sniggering at his comical nervousness.

“Pants should ideally fit and not show underwear. _Posture,_ of course,” Max snapped up straight and hoisted his baggy pants well up over his waist. Michael snorted. Beside him, Isobel hid laughter behind her hand. 

“Facial hair patchy, I’d prefer to see you clean-shaven,” the Queen said. Max’s hand flew to his face, to the uneven mustache he’d been proudly growing. Michael shouldn’t have looked over at Isobel. When their eyes met, they both started laughing harder, but kept it quiet as they could as they watched the scene before them.

“Hair, like a Backstreet Boy,” the Queen wrinkled her nose. Max cringed, and tried to make it a smile. Michael thought he just looked constipated.

“Good teeth,” the Queen said, then her voice turned fond. “Smile, like his mother’s.”

“Really?” Max beamed.

“Yes, a very handsome smile,” the Queen said softly. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Michael felt a jolt of jealousy at the grandmotherly fondness Max got, on top of everything else.

“Next,” the Queen turned sharply on her heel. “Isobel please come here.”

Michael felt his heart clench as he watched Isobel step forward and Max shuffle off to the side. He’d be next.

“Ah, first, these nails. Who has nails like these?” the Queen reached for Isobel’s hand, wrinkling her nose.

“They’re french tip acrylics,” Isobel said proudly, showing Charlotte with her other hand. “From the Nails La Belle salon, it’s the best salon in town.”

“Trends such as these are hardly becoming of a princess.”

Isobel dropped her hands to her sides.

“Is it typical,” the Queen continued, “for girls these days to wear such short shirts?”

“It’s a crop top!”

“A princess should never expose her midriff,” the Queen said. Isobel tugged her shirt down so it covered her belly button.

“Hairstyle, as well, please make a note Charlotte.” Isobel’s hand flew to pat at her bangs and long blonde locks.

Michael knew he shouldn’t find this all as amusing as he did, but it wasn’t often that Isobel got a taste of her own medicine.

“We’ll need to assess your wardrobe and styling,” the Queen said finally, nodding to Charlotte. “But, on the whole, an easy job. A born royal.”

She gave Isobel a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder. Isobel’s wobbly smile became a full-on grin as she stepped back to the side.

“Now you,” the Queen said, beckoning Michael forward.

His feet rooted on the spot. If that was what she had to say about Max and Isobel, whose parents took them to fancy salons and big malls to go shopping, who lived in a big house with extra shampoo, what the hell kind of thing was this lady – his grandma – a _reigning monarch_ – going to say about _him_?

The Queen came over and circled him where he stood stock-still.

“Stand up straight, slouching is poorly-suited to a Crown Prince,” Michael’s back snapped up straight of its own accord while he felt his heart rate thundering in his ears.

“These clothes, we’ll need all new. Please make a note of that, Charlotte.” Charlotte nodded and jotted the note down on her Blackberry.

“Your father had curly hair like yours,” she said, raising a hand as if she might touch Michael’s hair. Michael’s heart leapt in his throat. “Of course,” the Queen continued. “Your father’s hair was _washed_ and _combed_.” She withdrew her hand sharply and wrinkled her nose.

“Nails, as well,” she said, grabbing Michael’s hand as he raised it to bite his fingernails, which he knew was a habit he shouldn’t do around the _Queen_ of a _country_ and also his _grandma_ but it wasn’t like he could exactly stop like that. He’d chewed his nails every day of his life.

She looked at him intently as she held his hand up. The Queen’s skin was delicate under his fingers. “A bit rough too,” she said softly.

“Oh, I, uh, work at a junkyard. You know, for a job.” He pulled his hand back. 

For a long moment, the Queen didn’t respond. Her eyes searched his face, and when Michael found the courage to meet them, he didn’t find disdain or disgust. There was something gentle in the way she watched him. Something forgiving and kind. He realized the only other person who’d ever looked at him like that was Alex. Alex. Michael looked out the window, in the direction of the Manes house, as if Michael might somehow see him too.

“Complexion,” the Queen continued sharply, as if some spell between them had been broken. “Like a pepperoni pizza.”

Michael’s face burned. He could hear Isobel and Max sniggering behind him, and he silently wished they weren’t there to see his humiliation.

“We’ll have our work cut out with you, Michael,” the Queen said finally.

Michael’s chest felt tight.

“Well, then why don’t you choose Max or Isobel to be your heir!” He said, shame bubbling over into anger.

“It’s not a matter of _choice_ –”

“I don’t care! I never wanted to be your little puppet!” He interrupted. He saw Max looking at him slack-jawed and Isobel rolling her eyes, as if to say _he always does this._

Michael didn’t exactly _run_ from the room, but you couldn’t say he walked either. He _stormed_ out, he decided, as he ran from the hotel to the dry, cool desert breeze outside. _Fuck,_ he realized, as he walked down the street. He lived at the hotel now, surrounded by the royal secret service guards. He didn’t have anywhere to go, and he’d left the keys to the truck back in the hotel room.

He glanced back at the fancy building, considering walking back into the dumb hotel, but he could see the security guys on either side of the front door. They’d follow him, then they’d tell the Queen where he went, and she’d come tell him more about how he was a failure of a human being and an embarrassment of a grandson.

He walked up and down the neighborhood streets alone, dragging his feet along the sidewalk, until a limo pulled up alongside him.

“Prince Michael,” Agent Haynes called. Michael glanced over to see the secret service agent in the passenger seat, yelling at him through the open limo window while Steve, the driver, grinned at him nervously from behind the wheel. “Get in the car!”

“Go away,” Michael said, it might have come out a little more childish than he meant it to. He kept walking. Maybe he could sneak in the back of the hotel, grab his stuff, get in the truck and drive away and never have to deal with any of this again.

“What are you going to do, run away?” Haynes asked sarcastically.

“Shut up!” Michael yelled. He didn’t need this Queen lady, or this country he still didn’t know anything about, or anyone at all. He’d been alone before and he’d be alone again now. Same as ever. He wasn’t losing anything at all, he told himself, even though it definitely felt like he was.

“Prince Michael,” he heard again, this time closer. He turned to see that the limo had pulled over, and Agent Haynes had jumped out of the car to come after him.

“Come with me,” Haynes said, stopping short in front of him on the sidewalk. 

Fuck, Michael realized, he’d still need to go to school if he wanted to get into UNM. He couldn’t just disappear.

“I can’t do it,” he said out loud, heart sinking. He couldn’t run away, and these people were just going to be disappointed in him. He was a failure.

“You’ll do better than you think,” Haynes said.

“I…” Michael said, voice wobbling. He felt pricks at the corners of his eyes.

“You will,” Haynes continued. “Your grandmother is hard on you, because she sees your potential. You were born for this. You just need to trust.”

Michael scoffed and kicked the dusty sidewalk with his ruddy vans.

“Now,” the agent said more sternly. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

“I’m not coming with you,” Michael said.

“Fine,” Haynes said. “The hard way.”

Michael felt the wind knocked out of him as Agent Haynes’ shoulder collided with his belly suddenly. Before he knew it, he was hoisted over Haynes’ shoulder in a fireman carry.

“If you kick me, sir,” Haynes said sternly. “Prince or not, I’ll drop you on your face.”

Michael watched the cracks in the sidewalk slide away from him as Haynes carried him back to the limo. 

Huh. Seemed like these people were determined to keep him around.

\--

He avoided Isobel at school the next day. He did _not_ want to hear her repeat any of the Queen’s criticisms against his hair or his face or his nails or whatever. Better off pretending none of that had even happened until they all decided he wasn’t worth the time.

That was how he found himself alone in the library at lunch, like a nerd.

He meandered down the non-fiction section during lunch hour, bored out of his mind since Max had some sort of Academic Decathalon thing. He knew there was a good table in the corner of the room, tucked behind the stacks, and. Oh. 

Alex Manes looked up at him as he came around the bookshelves. He had papers all spread out all around him on the desk and a textbook open in his lap.

“Hi,” Alex said. He looked tense.

“Hey,” Michael tried to lean against the bookshelf behind to look more casual. The shelf buckled slightly under his weight and he sprung away from it, turning to stabilize it so it didn’t tip over. God, awkward moment. But charming, right?

He glanced at Alex, and his haphazard schoolwork. “Getting that chem homework done for Taylor?”

“Oh yeah,” Alex said, with a sarcastic smile. “It’s going great. I’m the next Einstein, can’t you tell?”

“Well Einstein was a physicist,” Michael explained, with his own know-it-all grin. “Not a chemist.” Alex huffed.

Michael took a step forward and leaned over the scribbled notes and worksheets. “Do you want some help?”

Alex looked up at him, beat-up textbook clutched in his hands, he drew in a breath sharply. Michael could see the “No, it’s okay” forming.

Alex blinked at him. Exhaled.

“Maybe,” he said.

_Maybe._

Michael pulled a chair over next to Alex’s, “What are you working on now?”

“The quiz for Friday,” Alex said. “I have a really hard time with the chemical equations.”

“Yeah…” Michael glanced over Alex’s work. “Why are you – I’m sorry, why are you even _in_ AP Chem?”

It occurred to him the moment he said it that it was probably too blunt a thing to say, but Alex looked over at him and immediately a grin spread across his face.

“You know, I don’t know,” Alex started laughing. He held up the worksheet he was working on. “I really suck at this.”

Michael started laughing along with him.

“I just want to get the fuck out of here,” Alex said, still chuckling. “I just want to go to college and study music and never fucking come back.”

“Cheers to that,” Michael said, holding up a pencil. Alex brought his own pencil up and tapped them together like a toast, grinning. “Now, let’s get you passing this class and off to college!”

Together they bent over his worksheets and books and notes, walking through the equations step by step, “Okay,” Alex would murmur softly as Michael calmly explained things. “That’s… yeah, that helps me.” A little smile. “Thank you.”

“You know,” Michael said. “I could help you. Like, we could meet after school and go over the chem homework and quizzes and stuff.”

“I don’t want to waste your time,” Alex shrugged.

“It’s not!” Michael insisted. “It helps me too, to review.”

“If you really want to…” Alex said.

Before Michael could tell him how much he really really did want to, the bell rang to end lunch suddenly. Wow, they’d been there more than half an hour. He felt like they’d barely been there five minutes. 

Alex startled when the loud tone of the bell burst through the quiet of the library, knocking against Michael’s shoulder as he jerked back, knocking his textbook off the table, scattering his pencils across the floor.

“Oh,” Alex gasped. “Shit. Sorry. That really got me.” He forced out a chuckle as they both kneeled down to grab the pencils. 

Michael noticed Alex’s hand shake just a little as he gathered up his things. He spotted a pencil that had rolled far into the corner and reached for it at the same time that Alex did, their hands brushing. Michael looked down and caught a glimpse of Alex’s wrist. On his arm, where his long-sleeve shirt had ridden up, was a weirdly-shaped bruise. It was deep purple. It looked like it hurt, like the kind that would turn garish yellow and green later on.

“Woah,” Michael said, hands reaching out for the bruise on Alex’s arm but he stopped himself short. “What happened?”

“Oh,” Alex said quickly, drawing his arm back, pulling down his sleeve. “It’s fine. It’s – it’s embarrassing. I like, got it caught in the car door. But it’s fine. I should head to class.”

Alex stood abruptly and busied himself packing up his bookbag. Something was off. Michael, still crouching on the floor, noticed the rogue pencil in the corner they’d forgotten to pick up.

“Here,” he reached over to grab it.

“Thanks,” Alex said, a little awkwardly. “Um, I guess next time you need to stay at the shed we could study?” 

“Yeah,” Michael said, then caught himself. “Actually – I found a place to stay for a while. Don’t know if I’ll need the toolshed.”

“Oh,” Alex said, Michael thought he could hear a hint of disappointment in Alex’s voice but that might just have been wishful thinking.

“But I can still do after school, maybe Tuesdays?”

“Sure,” Alex said. “I should go, but yeah. Tuesdays.”

So yeah, not a lot had changed for Michael since he found out about the royalty thing. The swooping in his stomach when Alex shot him a grin as he turned to walk to class definitely hadn’t changed at all.

\--

Well, Michael would take that back a few days later when the limo came back to pick up him and Isobel and Max for their lessons with the Queen.

After that initial decimation of his appearance, which had Michael pulling his hoodie over his hair and stuffing his nails in his pockets so nobody would see for days, the Queen hadn’t returned to the subject. She’d assigned them big books of Genovian history, which Max had looked at with wide, reverent eyes, and Michael hadn’t even cracked open. He’d never cared about history, he was much more interested in the air-speed velocity of that book if he chucked it at the wall.

Next, she’d given them all etiquette books which Isobel took right to, and had started quoting it immediately at all sorts of occasions.

“It’s rude to put your elbows on the table like that,” she’d nag.

“Only married female members of the royal family can wear tiaras at night,” she’d tell them. Which, for the record, neither of them asked.

“ _Stand_ when the Queen enters the room,” she’d command, and stomp on Michael’s foot, whenever they were at the new Genovian Consulate.

“Do _not_ belch in public,” she’d say sternly to Max after he chugged a Coke.

“A gentleman should wait for the lady to enter the car first,” she’d say when they piled into the limo after school.

They’d settled into an after-school routine of heading out past the faculty parking lot, where the limo would be waiting on the secluded road beyond.

“I told everybody you and Max won a poetry contest,” Isobel said when they all piled into the back. Max and Michael both looked at her, confused. 

“To explain why we got pulled out of school the other day, _doy_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Michael chucked. “ _I_ won a poetry contest?”

“Next time _you_ think of the excuse, okay?”

“I’ll tell them we had an appointment to get abducted by aliens,” Michael said.

Isobel scoffed as the limo pulled away and crossed her arms. “ _You never take anything seriously._ ”

Michael just chuckled as he watched the desert zoom past their window as they neared the Queen’s New Mexico residence. By now, after living there for a week and being shuffled back and forth in their little Pope-mobile, he knew the drive well. They drove past Alex’s road, and he always strained just a little to see if he could get a glimpse of the house.

“Ah, you’re late,” the Queen said when they entered the ballroom - if you could call it that. The plastic furniture had been replaced by nice wood furniture. The curtains that had been piled in the corner had been removed and now the big windows stood awkwardly bare. There were huge cardboard boxes piled in the edges of the room.

“And where is Paolo?” the Queen asked.

“Send in Paolo,” Charlotte said in her headset.

“ _Regina Mia, buongiorno_ ,” a tall, bald Italian man burst into the room, followed by an entire squadron of tall models, all clad entirely in sleek black clothes. With a genial smile, he bowed deeply to the Queen and started laying kisses on her hand.

“Good afternoon, we’re so pleased you could make yourself available to be here,” the Queen struggled to pull her hand out of his grasp. “And these are my grandchildren,” she gestured to Michael, Max, and Isobel. “Children, this is Paolo.”

“My name is Paolo Puttanesca! And you! Oh, our beautiful Princess, _belissima_!” He exclaimed, rounding on Isobel. “And you!” He turned to Max rapturously. “You must be our dashing Royal Prince Michael!”

“Um,” Max choked.

“Why does everyone always think that?” Michael scoffed. “You tryin’ to steal my job, Maxi-Pad?”

Michael laughed at everyone’s indignant spluttering over his crudeness. “ _Unbecoming,_ ” the Queen was saying to Charlotte. “Etiquette lessons, Charlotte. Let’s please prioritize them.”

But Michael didn’t miss the way Paolo eyed him with skepticism.

“You are the young Crown Prince Michael?” He said, less a question, more a statement of disgust.

“...Yes?” Michael fidgeted.

“Come!” Paolo clapped his hands. “We begin! Olga, Helga - with me. The rest,” he jerked his head to the side towards where Isobel and Max stood. From behind their dark sunglasses, the models nodded. The two that must be Olga and Helga swooped in from behind Paolo and descended on Michael, sweeping him from the room.

“Wait - where are they going?” He asked, seeing Max and Isobel being lead in the other direction.

“Say goodbye to your cousins for now, Prince Michael,” Paolo waved away his concern. “You’ll see them again soon, once I’m done with you.”

Michael found himself swept from the room down the hall into some kind of fancy bathroom.

“What? When did this get here?” was all he could ask and Olga and Helga shuffled him over to a fancy black leather chair with a footrest and, with a hand on each shoulder, pushed him into it. They immediately started busying themselves at the long countertop filled with all kinds of beauty products and blow dryers and brushes and combs.

“Ah!” Paolo exclaimed, rounding on a clothing rack full of garments. “Do not worry, your Majesty, next time you see Michael, he will be a prince as grand as his father.”

“Charlotte,” the Queen said lowly from the doorway. “Watch him like a hawk.”

Before Michael could even ask _what the hell is happening_ the back recliner of the chair abruptly dropped, and Michael found himself laying flat on his back staring at the ceiling in confusion.

“So we begin Principe. You’re Paolo’s hands now!” Paolo exclaimed as Helga grabbed one of his hands and Olga came around behind his head.

The next hour – few hours? Several days? – passed in a blur for Michael.

One minute they were washing his hair and looking at him with furrowed brows. “Don’t cut it short. And no highlights,” Paolo was saying. “We don’t need Justin Timberlake.” And, _what??_ there was no way Michael would ever look like a Backstreet Boy, but next thing he knew he was being forced back in the chair again and they were putting something called a clay mask on his face that then dried solid like he had cement on his skin, and he wasn’t even able to look over at Helga who was giving him a manicure or Paolo who was on the other side of the room at a big garment rack holding up clothes saying, “Oh yes, _tres chic,_ ” or “ _cashmere quality too low,_ ” and Michael _knew_ he could not afford any cashmere.

There were a couple of times he tried to bolt, but Paolo would just come at him with cucumbers for his eyes, and he’d be stuck again.

“We must have you hydrated, _Principe_ ,” Paolo would say at another point, stuffing a glass of lemon water into his hands. “Does wonders for the complexion.”

Michael did not appreciate the implication that his complexion was not already wonderful, thank you very much.

At one point they stuffed him behind a curtain in the corner and insisted he change all of his clothes – even change his underwear for some kind called Calvin Kleins, which he didn’t understand what was wrong with his underwear before. It’s not like anyone would see it.

Then he spent what felt like an eternity standing on a raised dais while Paolo scurried around his feet pinning and tucking different pairs of pants and measuring his shoulders and arms.

“We must always tailor to perfection, young Prince,” Paolo explained, clocking Michael’s dubious look.

Before the entire whirlwind was over, Michael felt like almost every single part of his body had been plucked and prodded and lathered with moisturizer - _almost_ every part, mind you.

He was sure, when they turned him around to show the Queen, all decked out in his new wardrobe and smelling like hair product – “ _it’s pomade, Principe,_ ” Paolo had told him repeatedly when he asked what that stuff was they were putting in his hair – Michael was sure he would look like some kind of scrubbed-raw bright red poodle.

“Your Majesty,” Paolo said when the Queen came back in later that day. “Paolo is exhausted. Because, Majesty, only Paolo can take _this_ ,” he held up a picture they’d taken of him at the start. “And now I give you…”

“A Prince,” Olga and Helga said in unison as they turned Michael around in the spinny chair.

The Queen looked at him for a long moment, expression inscrutable. She took a step forward slowly. The entire room waited, still and silent, as she examined him.

“Good,” she said finally, turning to Paolo. “Very good.”

Paolo swelled with pride under the Queen’s approving gaze.

They left the room, Paolo fawning about high tea and the Queen smiling genially. Olga and Helga immediately began to clean up the chaotic makeover room with their typical stoicism. Michael stood, and the two of them swept the chair out from behind him and quickly began to bundle the large bags of supplies and furniture out the door.

Once they all left, Michael gathered himself and made his way to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room.

He lost his breath. For a split second, he thought the person looking back at him was someone completely different. A Royal Prince.

His curly hair, normally disheveled and unruly, was carefully trimmed back into a definable shape. Instead of long floppy curls hanging around his ears and his neck, it looked tamed, with loose ringlets that framed his forehead.

He had expected his skin to look blotchy and shiny after all their work, but it looked smooth and even. The jacket Paolo had fitted him in made his shoulders look broader, and his waist looked more trim. His blue jeans, crisp and new, tapered down to the top of his new leather shoes. Michael had never owned brand new jeans in his life, he’d always picked up hand-me-downs or second-hand pairs. He turned from side to side in front of the mirror, barely able to look away.

He looked like someone else entirely. He barely even recognized his hands as they smoothed the fabric of the denim. He held his hands up to his face. They’d done something to get rid of all the rough calluses he’d accumulated working for Sanders and playing guitar. They’d cleaned the grease from his nailbeds.

They didn’t look like his dirty, scraggly orphan hands. These were the hands of a grandson the Queen could be proud of. Maybe he _could_ be the Prince he was apparently meant to be.

Then again, these hands weren’t his. And he’d have to stop being him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much for reading, and stay tuned for the rest! I'd love to hear what you think, either here or at my tumblr [brightloveee](https://brightloveee.tumblr.com/)


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